


The Truth About Daddy Holmes-Watson

by CharmedBritannia



Series: Scotty Holmes-Watson [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adorable, Domestic Fluff, Husbands, Kid Fic, M/M, Original Character(s), Protectiveness, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, and Child - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-02 15:31:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10221446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharmedBritannia/pseuds/CharmedBritannia
Summary: Five times someone witnessed Sherlock Holmes-Watson behaving surprisingly around his son, and the one time he behaved exactly as one would expect.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Comment if you want more of little Scotty! ^v^/

\-----

**Greg Lestrade**

 

Greg ran a hand through his short hair, ruffling it in a mixture of disbelief and minor frustration. He was currently on his way to the Holmes-Watson residence to get statements from one of the two husbands (John had a shift at the clinic) regarding a murder they had just wrapped up a few days ago. Now normally, he'd have them both come to the station, but this time, he couldn't exactly demand their presence. They had a valid reason for not being able to attend.

 

They couldn't find anyone to watch Scotty.

 

Oliver 'Scotty' Scott George Holmes-Watson (his godson, actually, and hadn't _that_ been an emotional occassion) was quickly turning into  _thee most_ spoilt young lad in the entirety of England. He was always showered with attention, always kept as safe as could be, never ran into a shortage of loving affection, and was nearly  _impossible_ to say no to. It had been a fairly natural progession from marriage to child-rearing for the two, but really, it was quite shocking to most everyone who knew them. Scott had his Daddy's jet black, curly coifs, waifish build, and curious intelligence, but had also seemingly inherited his Papa's calm demeanor and thirst for adventure.

 

(A deadly mix indeed.)

 

So more often than not Sherlock conducted his consulting from home, though he never had a shortage of willing sitters should he need to view the scene with his own two eyes (he had raked many of his subordinates over the coals for not taking sufficient photographs). Mrs. Hudson was the most common choice, but she was visiting family over the weekend, so she was unavailable. Everyone else was either working or didn't meet Sherlock's high standards, and Greg needed that statement sooner than yesterday, so he had told Sherlock to stay where he was and that he'd come to him. So that was how he'd found himself on the threshold of 221B, taking a breath to prepare for the chaos. He knocked on the door, received a non-commital sound that he assumed meant 'come-in', and entered.

 

He was momentarily confused.

 

Normally, the flat was a disaster. Papers everywhere, science equipment littered about, decaying matter out in the open, etc. But the flat was actually fairly clean, with everything seemingly placed away. Sherlock was seated at the kitchen table, peering into his microscope, with Scott in his high-chair close-by, playing with a ball filled with shiny liquid that seemed to fascinate him. Greg coughed, but Sherlock didn't glance up.

 

"I know you're there, Lestrade. My statement is on the coffee table. It's been signed by John as well."

"That's not how these things are supposed to go, Sherlock-"

"My reports are many thousands of times more detailed and accurate than anything your _employees_ could draft up. Take the papers, and be grateful I took time to write my observations down so simply."

 

Greg opened his mouth to (pointlessly) chastise him, but Scotty, in a very Sherlock-esque fashion, had decided that the shiny ball no longer was fascinating. He tossed it as far as his small arms could muster, and slapped his hands down on his chair in agitation. The poor ball rolled until it came to a rest next to Sherlock's hand. Greg held his breath. If there was one thing he knew was disastrous, it was disturbing Sherlock Holmes-Watson's work. But Sherlock merely looked up from his microscope and made eye contact with the toddler. To Greg's shock, he merely picked up the ball, never breaking the gaze.

 

"No throwing."

 

A normal child would have probably entered tantrum territory by now, but this child had Holmes' DNA, so he merely formed an unimpressed stare that Greg didn't even know children Scotty's age could make.

 

"Bor'd."

 

Sherlock further shocked Lestrade by actually getting up from the table. After a few minutes, he returned with a metallic spring-toy, and Scotty's eyes widened. Soon, it was being manipulated by the youngster, who was once again immersed in play-time. With a quick kiss on the forehead, Sherlock sat down and resumed his observations, obviously shutting out his presence.

 

(He decided to take his papers, and his leave.)

 

\-----

 

**John's Co-workers**

 

 John Holmes-Watson's fellow doctors knew the man was absolutely devoted to his husband. The poor bloke had been through some serious shit to get to where he was today, and he never took any of it for granted. And then he had gone and had a kid. It was  _pandamonium._ Females cursed the fact that the man was taken, and males cursed the fact that the man had raised the standard by about one-hundred notches. Everyone knew that John Hamish Holmes-Watson was a family-man, through and through.

 

They, however, did not expect Sherlock Holmes-Watson to be.

 

Sherlock's reputation was wide-spread. He was abrasive, cold, blunt, etc. He didn't follow the basic rules of human society and/or decency. Hell, most weren't sure he even  _knew_ about them. The man had called _himself_ a high-functioning sociopath, after all. They had lost count of the amount of times over the course of their relationship (even before they became a couple) that John had clocked into a shift sour-faced because of something the _'posh, lanky, anti-social bastard'_ had done. But it would always work out eventually. The years when the consulting detective was supposedly dead were dark for everyone. John had grown a  _mustache_ for crying out loud.

 

The  _horror._

 

But anyways, John was the heart, and Sherlock was the mind. It was a balance.

 

Or so they all thought.

 

A few of John's fellow doctors watched as he swore while digging through his bag. The Holmes-Watson's had ordered dinner last night, and he was actually looking forward to eating his leftovers for lunch today. But he must have forgotten the container in the fridge this morning. It didn't help that today was Wednsday; his longest shift of the week. Scotty had just begun slumbering through the night, so both he and his husband were catching up on some much needed sleep. But his alarm was cruel, and woke him for his shift anyway. They watched sympathetically as John resigned himself to going another few hours without a substantial meal due to his own carelessness when audible gasps drew attention towards the front desk. 

 

Sherlock Holmes-Watson was standing there, plastic bag in one hand, and toddler resting on his hip.

 

No one knew where to look first. The consulting detective made for a wonderful sight, with his sharp cheekbones and perfectly coifed locks, but the toddler (who couldn't have been more than three or four) was adorable; big, blue eyes taking in his surroundings with far too much intelligence for someone his age. The receptionist looked panicked for a moment before molding her expression into something she thought was hospitable and charming. Veterans of the clinic winced. Sherlock (nor his son, as they had found out) responded well to that. 

 

"Well,  _hello._ And how can I help you and this _adorable_ little fellow today?"

 

Both shot her twin unimpressed stares.

 

"I'm here to drop something off for John Holmes-Watson."

"Papa."

"That's right, Scotty."

" _Papa._ "

"I'm sure she's getting him _right now_ , Scotty."

 

The last statement was delivered with a pointed stare towards the receptionist. She flushed, and they watched as John took mercy on her poor soul. When he entered the two's field of vision, it was like ice melting. The frigidity receded, and Scotty reached out frantically. John took him into his arms with a flourish and a swooping sound effect, pulling a delighted shriek from his son. Sherlock ridiculed him without heat for leaving his food in the fridge, and took a few minutes to allow Scotty to have his fun before taking him back. John watched them leave with a smitten expression his face that didn't leave for a long while.

 

It was almost as shocking as it was implausible.

 

\-----

 

**Mycroft Holmes**

 

Mycroft sighed as he relaxed against the leather interior of the car. He rarely made these little 'visits' to the Holmes-Watson's residence nowadays, but Mummy was eager for an update, and couldn't make the trip herself for another few weeks. He used to be forced to make an appearance far more often, but that retired army doctor/blogger was quite proficient at keeping his younger sibling out of trouble. Not to mention John's presence left him with a far better temperament than his did, obviously.

 

But as he stood in the entryway, he wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it most certainly was not this.

 

Mrs. Hudson had let him in, chirping about how nice of a mood her boys were in. He heard the unspoken _'so don't ruin it for them'_ , but did not speak on it. He was aware that his visits left Sherlock in a foul mood, which in turn soured John's demeanor. But that wasn't what made him pause in the doorway.

 

Sherlock was far more emotional than most thought. He loved to state the contrary, but he cared deeply and throughly for certain things. When he grew attached to something, he wrapped himself in it like ivy wrapped around cobblestone. And it was just as difficult and painful for his younger brother to remove himself. So when he watched Sherlock  _entangle_ himself with this other man, he couldn't bring himself to muster any enthusiasm. 

 

But then John Holmes-Watson turned out to be just as ridiculous as his brother, and Mycroft couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief behind his agitation.

 

His brother was seated in the living area, reading some sort of obscure book on geology that was probably relevant to some case of his. John was chasing his toddling son through the apartment, making growling noises that were most likely meant to belong to some sort of hostile creature. Scott yelled in defiance, and continued his trek until he ran into his other parent's leg. Sherlock peered over his book at him.

 

"What is it, Scotty?"

"Is'a _mons'er,_ Daddy. He wanna ea' me!"

 

(It appeared as though Scott still had issues with his T's. John had warned him not to judge his son, and Sherlock had narrowed his eyes and reminded him that he had not been proficient in his use of L's until much later than was expected.)

 

Mycroft expected Sherlock to scoff and return to reading. He hadn't been a fan of imagination games since he was quite young. He was actually rather shocked that Sherlock hadn't burst the young child's bubble already. But Sherlock merely met John's eyes, and Mycroft saw a glimmer of something whimsical pass through before Sherlock put his book aside and let out a roar. Scott shrieked and ran in the opposite direction.

 

"Papa, no! Drag'n's awake!"

"Oh, dear, Scotty! It looks like we'll have to beat him if we want the treasure!"

"You  _fools._ The treasure is  _all mine._ And I think I'll have a little adventurer for lunch today!"

"We'll take that treasure from you, Dragon! Won't we, Scotty?"

"Yeah!"

 

The two husbands play fought for a second before John managed to wrestle Sherlock to the ground. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

 

"You wouldn't dare."

 

John smirked.

 

"You know what to do, Scotty."

 

Mycroft's eyes widened as the youngest Holmes-Watson crawled onto his father's legs and they both began jabbing his rare, few ticklish spots. It wasn't long before Sherlock was wriggling about and surrendering his 'hoarde'. Mycroft smiled discreetly, clearing his throat.

 

He'd tell Mummy they were doing just fine.

 

\-----

 

**Mrs. Hudson**

 

Mrs. Hudson let out a sympathetic sigh as she looked at her three boys. Scotty hadn't been feeling the best, the poor dear. John had sadly informed her that he merely had a bit of a cold (which _had_ been running rampant throughout London lately), and that he'd be back on his feet soon. He had also assured Sherlock, who's mind had already started racing with a list of possible fatal illnesses, that a hospital was not necessary. They would just have to stock up on cold medicine, tissues, and the like. Sherlock's face had morphed into one of begrudging acceptance, and stepped away from the phone (where he was about two seconds from calling 999). John had been continuing to keep him away from it, because he knew what an extensive knowledge Sherlock had on viruses. It was just a cold, and would most likely be gone in a few days, tops.

 

That didn't make it any easier for them to watch their precious baby boy cough and sniffle, though.

 

She had been surprised. She would have thought Sherlock would be the one applying logic to the situation. It seemed right down his alley. But he had been the one who appeared more worried. He hadn't said much, true, but he hadn't put Scotty down much either. He held him tight, rocking back and forth. The only times he relinquished him to John were for check-ups, investigations, and mandatory toilet breaks. Other than that, Scotty clutched his Daddy's shirt, content to be comforted. Sherlock Holmes-Watson wasn't what most would think of as the Florence Nightingale type, and he never claimed to be. But she had watched him try and learn all there was on the subject, and the results were astounding.

 

She smiled. She should have known by now not to underestimate that young man.

 

She set the container of soup on the stove, and John sent her a thankful smile from where he stood behind Sherlock. She mouthed her standard  _'not your houskeeper',_ before leaving. And when she heard the familiar sound of a lullaby being played on violin that night, well, she was sure little Scotty would have only the most pleasant of dreams.

 

\-----

 

**Sally Donovan**

 

Seargant Donovan glanced up from her paperwork again. Sherlock and John Holmes-Watson were currently speaking with Lestrade about a case that had turned out to be far more convuluted than they had expected. Of course, Sherlock had rated it at barely a five, and that was just because he'd been feeling bored lately. They had also brought their son with them again. Greg had pitched a fit the first few times they did so, but now he merely took his godson into his arms without a second thought. So the duo saw no need to stop anytime soon. Besides, Scotty adored Greg. John joked that Scotty might join the Scotland Yard when he grew up, smirking devilishy at the pained look on his husband's face.

 

"Don't even joke like that."

"Who says I'm joking?"

"John."

"Yes, honeybee?"

 

It was then that she heard it.

 

"Why is he bringing a kid in when he's talking about murder? Freak's probably hoping he'll turn out like him, the creepy git."

 

She wasn't sure who had said it, but she saw John's shoulder's tense, so she knew he heard it. Ah, shit. Now she was going to have to break up a row and it wasn't even noon yet. What she wasn't expecting was for Sherlock's hand to clamp down on John's shoulder. The effect was similar to pouring a bucket of water over a campfire; it doused the flames, leaving him looking just angry nstead of violently irate. Sherlock spoke up.

 

"I would never in a million years hope for him to turn out like me. If I'm lucky, he'll turn out like John, or even Lestrade since he interacts with him so much. But I'd never wish my mannerisms or  _quirks_ on my son. What I will encourage, however, is thinking. I want him to question the world, and be competent enough to find the answers. Unlike  _you,_ Williams, I do not wish for blind obedience from my child. It stunts their development and encourages complacency. And please, do speak up if you have something to say. I can hear you well enough anyway, but it's tedious to have to put effort into hearing your ridiculously idiotic and ignorant statements."

 

A hush fell over the office, but SHerlock merely turned back to Greg to continue his conversation. He didn't release John's shoulder, however, which was probably for the best. She remembered that he punched in her superior's nose the last time. Greg merely looked like he wasn't paid enough to handle these types of issues. She went back to her paperwork. She should really stop being surprised by Sherlock Holmes-Watson.

 

It made him far too smug.

 

\-----

 

***Bonus* Hired Thugs**

 

The two men looked around the apartment. It was quiet and still, with no sign of the irritating detective and his short-but-deadly partner/husband. They unsheathed their knives, hiding in the shadows of night. 

 

"Careful. These two are supposed to be some sort of vigilanties or some other shit."

"I still think the boss is blowing smoke up our asses."

"Why else would he put such a nice price tag on those two's heads?"

 

The taller of the two shushed him, peeking into the room. It looked like some sort of nursery. A little boy was sleeping soundly in the middle of the room, blissfully unaware of the threat.

 

"Shit. We can't wake the brat; he'll give us away for sure-"

"Let's just off 'im and be done with it-"

"I hope for your own sake that those words did  _not_ just exit your mouth."

 

They both flinched violently, but before either could move, one had been bashed (against the head)unconscious with a fireplace poker, and the other was in a tight headlock. Frosty blue eyes seemed entirely too calm to be holding someone's life in their hands.

 

"Ah. That's too bad, then. Looks as though I'll have to teach you a lesson. But don't worry, you idiotic, bumbling lackey. John will want to have his fun as well."

\-----


End file.
